Towards the sides of the whitefish
Lane in the countryside
The mind of the tired horse
Stares at the slender, dried
Sun-seeking grasses which,
Slanted a little rightish
Between the hedge and the ditch,
Reflect the sun in shivers.

O standing as you stand
To face the sun declining
Into a sideways shining
Over this lonely land,
What, o my lone and shaking soul,
Can you so stare upon?

Over the horse’s dusty nose
The glass tears trickle down.